


always ready for a war again

by Lise



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Erik Killmonger Feels, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection, Names, POV Erik Killmonger, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: He's had a lot of names in his life.





	always ready for a war again

**Author's Note:**

> So...this happened. 
> 
> I have a Thing about names and peoples' names and what they call themselves, and this character with his several names, all of which have their own baggage and complications, is _perfect_ for that kind of thing. So I was thinking about that, and this fic is what came out of it. This isn't in my usual wheelhouse, so let me know if I fucked something up (though I really hope I didn't). 
> 
> Thanks to my [infinitely patient beta](http://ameliarating.tumblr.com), and when I'm not writing fic you can find me on [Tumblr](http://veliseraptor.tumblr.com).

**I. N’JADAKA**

You were born with two names. 

The one on your birth certificate, the one the American legal system knows you by: Erik Stevens, born January 12th, 1985. That’s the one most people know: friends, teachers, the bodega owner down the street.

Then there’s the other one: N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu. It’s a short list, people who know that one. Uncle James knows it. Baba gave it to you. Your mama knew it too, but she never used it: you were Erik, to her, before she died. Mostly, it’s Baba’s name. 

It’s your secret name. It’s from home, or what will be home, someday, when you go back there. 

At first it seems kind of weird, having this whole name that hardly anybody knows. But when you think about it, it’s a little like being a superhero, like in the comics. Secret identity type stuff. Everyone knows Batman, but nobody knows he’s also Bruce Wayne. 

You stop thinking about superheroes the day your father dies. 

Uncle James is gone. Baba’s dead, your mom’s dead. 

The aunt the state ships you off to calls you Erik. You never tell her about the other name.

 

**II. ERIK STEVENS**

So you’re Erik Stevens now. For a while you write _Erik N. Stevens_ and when people ask you what the “N” stands for (snickering, sometimes) you say it’s for Nelson, like Mandela. You realize fast how stupid that is, though. 

You grow up hard and you grow up fast. You have to. People get shot when they don’t (and sometimes when they do): by the cops, by each other, by themselves when they get sick of living in a place that doesn’t want them. 

You’re lucky. You’re smart, and your auntie lives on the edge of the suburbs and manages to slip you into a good school. You don’t make friends, but you do make valedictorian, skip a few grades, land a spot in the the Navy Academy and jump from there to grad at MIT by age nineteen. _Two years older than Tony Stark,_ everyone says, and you kind of want to spit in their faces. 

_Tony Stark got everything he needed on a platter. I got lucky because my uncle murdered my father._

Fuck ‘em. You’re Erik Stevens, and you’re going to remake this goddamn world. 

You’ve read about how your mother’s people had their names stolen from them, new ones jotted down on the manifests, the bland, bureaucratic accounting of blood and tears. Your father chose his American name but you wonder about your mother, try to trace back her family line but the links of that chain break fast. 

_Erik Stevens doesn’t sound like a black name,_ says one of your classmates at MIT.

You fix your eyes on him. _What does a black name sound like?_

God, it’s satisfying to watch him choke on that one.

 

**III. KILLMONGER**

You finish out grad school mostly because you can, and then join up with the SEALs. Some of your professors seem disappointed, like they thought you were going to go into academia or some shit. 

Not so much. 

You’re not sure exactly when you decided what you were going to do. Maybe it was always there: that fairytale country your Baba always talked about, always at the corner of your eye. The lie in every single book and documentary and atlas: Wakanda, third world isolationist country of farmers. 

That’s not Wakanda. Wakanda is meteors and perfect sunsets and your name, the name in your heart that no one living knows. Wakanda is everything black folks should be, would be, if it weren’t for the white boots that stomped on your necks. It’s proof, it’s a promise.

Wakanda is the ring around your neck and panther claws in your Baba’s heart.

It’s a two pronged plan, shaped between Fanon and Said and Spivak, between Huey P. Newton and Malcolm X. Revenge and revolution. 

Afghanistan is a forge. You learn how to kill. You’ve always known death, but it’s here that you deal it rather than witness.

It’s here you start marking yourself. Keeping track. A scar for every kill. It’s a map on your body of the road that you’re taking.

The name starts out a mixture of fear and disgust and admiration. Your squad can’t decide at first if they like you or not, but they sure admire what you can do. There’s respect, at least, and you can build on that, you can build on that if you try. 

Sometimes it makes you sick, being imperialism’s dog. You leave Afghanistan with JSOC and start killing folks who look like you across the continent. 

It’s going to be worth it, in the end, when you turn all this upside down, rip it all to shreds, remake the world. You’ve got a plan. You’ve got a way in.

Revenge. Then revolution.

 

**IV. N’JADAKA**

You stand in the throne room in your Baba’s fairytale country and say, _ask me who I am._

_Go on, ask me._

He knows. Your cousin on his throne, you can see he’s already put it together, figured it all out. T’Challa, son of T’Chaka, King of motherfucking Wakanda with all his power and all his privilege. Sitting here on a volcano that could reshape the world and hiding it away. 

You’re ready for him to die. You’ve been waiting for this for two decades and change. 

When you kill him, it’s going to be under the name your father gave you. 

 

**V. A THOUSAND NAMES, AND NONE**

You remember seeing a manifest once in a library somewhere, or maybe you just read about it. It’s hard to say, and you’re bleeding to death watching the Wakanda sunset your Baba used to talk about, which is probably part of why you can’t remember. It listed the number of slaves, and right underneath, the 10 gallons of rum. 

Your people bleed names. Names torn away by force, broken lineage, and even when you’re free the names you get aren’t really yours. _I am N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu,_ you said, and thought you were taking your birthright, but it wasn’t yours. You’re too much _Erik Stevens,_ too much _Killmonger,_ too much American. You don’t belong here. 

_Diaspora._ From the Greek meaning _scatter between, through, across._ That’s your people. 

Rootless. Between.

What name would they carve on your gravestone? All of them would be a lie. 

No. Give you a death like those nameless ancestors cut off from their home, refusing the colonizer’s attempt to make them theirs by pinning a new name on their chests. You name something, you own it, and nobody owns you. 

You’re dying, but god, you’re free. 


End file.
